


Means of Grace

by trebleclefable



Series: As Above, So Below [1]
Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Dark Humor, Deal with a Devil, Emotional Vampires, Gen, Horror, Mostly Pacifist Jonathan, OC Vampire Species, OC heavy, Psychological Horror, Religious Content, Religious Horror, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, This is basically if Gaunter O'Dimm were unbearably Catholic, Torture, Unconventional Demonic Possession, energy vampires, gratuitous Italian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26923420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trebleclefable/pseuds/trebleclefable
Summary: “Hunter,” the beast rumbled, its voice both resonating and muffled as if underwater. “Listen to me, for I have a particular quarry for you. There is an Ekon by name of Jacob Blackwood whose sins are countless and reprehensible. He gorges himself on blood with no sense of restraint and he tortures and mutilates the most defenseless victims he can find. And you, on my behalf, are going to make him pay penance for it.”“You are going to kill him,” it continued, authoritative and matter-of-fact, “and no matter if you burn or stake him, he will reform the subsequent night. So you will kill him again, and again, and again, until he feels at least a fraction of the humiliation and agony he’s caused. Once that’s done, we’ll be able to end this."Jacob Blackwood assumed that he could throw his heart and soul to the flames with impunity. After all, he was an Immortal, and a particularly powerful one at that - it would take more than a few human hunters and self-righteous Ekons to force him to leave this world and face God's judgement. Unfortunately, the devil was more than happy to close that gap.
Relationships: Elisabeth Ashbury/Jacob Blackwood (past), Geoffrey McCullum & Jonathan Reid, Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid
Series: As Above, So Below [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968925
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	1. Annunciation

**Author's Note:**

> Note! This has a moderate amount of OCs, from vampires (and vampire species) to scholars to Priwen, and at least the vampire oc has a pretty prominent role. However, the POV will generally be canon characters. Also, I am not Catholic, but am pretty familiar with Catholicism. This fic does not represent my views on Catholicism, religion in general or lack thereof, and you should take Geoffrey, Nicolao, and Jonathan's opinions with a grain of salt.

November 30, 1919

* * *

Over a year had passed since the end of the vampire plague and the resolution of the Great War, though peace had yet to come to London in full. Britain's soldiers - the ones that survived, at any rate - had all returned home, and the battered kingdom and capital had begun to gradually pick itself up piece by piece, brick by brick and household by household, and mend itself back together. 

The healing process was painful and slow, of course. The Spanish Influenza stubbornly persisted in the hospitals and poorer neighborhoods, its influence beaten but not quite broken despite most nations’ health officially declaring it dead. At night, the city’s moonlit streets and alleyways still played host to the covert war between mankind’s supernatural predators and the company of mortals sworn to hunt them, though the violent spectacles and skirmishes were growing increasingly infrequent. With the war and the epidemic officially over, the foreign vampires that had flocked to London found it a little less to their liking, and, with encouragement from the Guard of Priwen, slowly but gradually began to dwindle in number. The city still teetered at the edge of convalescence, some days better, some days worse, but it was closer than it had been before, Geoffrey McCullum was determined to see the city’s fever finally break.

He’d formally ended the Great Hunt about a year ago, honoring his promise to Jonathan Reid, and consequently scaled Priwen’s operations down from a small-scale war, with small bands of armed men patrolling the streets, to the more ‘traditional’ form of vampire hunting: a game of cat and mouse, with Priwen’s members focusing more on investigative work before conducting a raid or ambush on their target rather than on fighting them in the open. There were a good deal fewer members left than there were a year ago, but Geoffrey was surprised at how many remained, and beyond proud that the reason the number had decreased was not due to deaths but to voluntary resignation. As the city stabilized and law enforcement regained control, Priwen would need to be smaller and less conspicuous anyway, and frankly Geoffrey simply didn’t have the money and resources to continue funding such a large number of people. The Great Hunt was vital and it was valiant, but God, did it take money, men, and quite a bit of illegal activity. He was actually somewhat relieved to end it. Soon, he hoped, London would be safe enough that he could reduce Priwen’s presence to solely that of an intelligence network, and he would leave England for other pastures. Maybe he'd even go back to Dublin.

It was foolish to hope, of course, but more foolish still was that Geoffrey dared to let his guard down and somewhat relax his steel-clad discipline. Tonight _ought_ to have been a relatively quiet, easy night; no ambush, no robbery, just collecting evidence so that a raid might be possible down the road. It ought to have gone without incident. So when his lieutenant and scheduled partner asked for the night off to take care of some personal matters, Geoffrey was stupid enough to agree. Not that it was Noah’s fault; no, the predicament Geoffrey found himself in was entirely of his own making. He let his guard down, he decided not to postpone tonight's plans, he went out alone with no one to watch his back, and now he was paying the price for it as a hulking Vulkod backed him up against a wall in some dreary, dead-end alley.

Geoffrey swore quietly as a battery of shotgun shells did little more than stun the beast, though he knew better than to bother drawing his sword. If anything could keep him alive now, it was range and fire, and he had more of the former than he did the latter. The Vulkod shook itself and snarled before taking another step. These beasts were unbelievably fast when they wanted to be, so it seemed this one was simply taunting him with its tortuous pace; playing with its food, as it were. If Geoffrey died here - which was very likely - he’d at least teach the Vulkod its mistake. Somewhat distantly, he regretted that he'd never see Dublin again.

With practiced composure and deliberateness, Geoffrey took the crucifix from where it hung on his hip next to his stake and brandished it out, and, when the Vulkod doubled over shrieking, exchanged his shotgun for incendiary bombs and threw them as hard and accurately as he was capable. 

The incendiaries hit the cobblestones at the Vulkod’s feet, shattering into a brilliant eruption of glass and fire. Geoffrey wasted no time with celebration; he threw another, and a third for good measure, just barely able to buy himself time to reload his shotgun and begin the battery of shots anew. 

The Vulkod roared in agony; agony at the cross, at the fire, at the glass, at the shots imbedding into its skin. Geoffrey knew what was coming, so he was ready with his stake and sword when the beast charged blindly.

He was only somewhat shocked when it shadow-stepped, abruptly appearing less than a full foot away and body slammed him against the wall. Geoffrey would have probably cried out if the air hadn’t been crushed out of him - something inside him cracked on impact, and the sudden bite of fire was insult to the injury. _Fucking fool_ , he scolded himself as he dropped heavily to the ground. The fact that there was really nothing else he could have done was hardly comforting when he was crushed and burning. 

God, he was going to die. The Vulkod stepped back only to flail wildly, trying to set the blaze out; similarly, Geoffrey patted frantically at the embers on his arms and chest. Thankfully, he managed to snuff out the embers caught onto his clothes before they grew into a conflagration, but _fuck_ it hurt. And, frankly, the Vulkod was correct in prioritizing the fire as the biggest threat now; even with the beast occupied, Geoffrey was trapped in a dead end alley with no ammo, maybe a cracked rib or two, and a furious forty-stone vampire. Still, he took what he could get, desperately grasping at his stake, struggling to keep it from slipping through his blood-soaked hands. 

This wouldn’t work. The Vulkod could take more than a few stakings, even with the fire, which its flailing and thrashing finally managed to put out anyway. This wouldn’t work and Geoffrey was going to die, but the only way was forward. Geoffrey clawed himself halfway up and plunged the stake into the flailing vampire’s hip.

And, to his shock, the Vulkod seized in pain, gasping wetly for air it didn’t strictly need. It wheezed and shuddered, and for a moment, two, three, its feet lifted off the ground, the Vulkod hanging suspended in mid air.

 _Ah_ , he realized. _I must be dead already_. Had to have been the impact.

But then, behind and under the Vulkod, Geoffrey could just barely see a pair of polished black shoes, and a bit of the legs they were attached to. _Shit_. He snatched his stake free from the creature’s side, leaving blood to swell and pour from the wound; whatever vampire had this Vulkod up by the neck, he didn’t want to face it unarmed, unless -

The newcomer stepped to the Vulkod’s side and into Geoffrey’s sight, and he wasn’t sure if he was more shocked and alarmed to see that, no, the vampire wasn’t holding the beast up by the neck - the Vulkod was actually being lifted, _levitated_ , off the ground, without physical contact from the newcomer - or that the vampire sure as _hell_ wasn’t Reid. He could have expected Reid to be capable of that kind of power, and he certainly wouldn’t be surprised if he were to appear uninvited out of nowhere to defend him. But Reid was a good deal taller and paler than this newcomer, nevermind _distinctly_ less likely to ever wear the white clerical tab collar around his neck. 

"So, you still remain upright, human?” the newcomer asked, its hushed words and cadence tinged with an accent Geoffrey couldn’t immediately place. “That sort of fortitude in mortals is rare. Come, let us put it to good use.”

Geoffrey meant to protest, or - something, _do_ something - but the leech-priest casually crooked a finger, and the Vulkod was abruptly flung back toward the opening of the alley. It was surreal and almost comical, really, watching a creature _that heavy_ be tossed like it was nothing. Tossed _by_ nothing. It hit the cobblestones hard, landing forearms first - he was almost certain the ground itself had cracked underneath it. The newcomer strode towards its prey, grabbed it by the collar of its coat, and unceremoniously began dragging it behind. With nowhere else to go, Geoffrey reluctantly followed, carefully stepping over bits of glass and brick on the ground.

He should have run. The - what was, it, an Ekon? - dragged the Vulkod away with seemingly little effort, and Geoffrey should have run the moment he was able to clear the alley. Whatever this thing was, he had no desire to go toe-to-toe with it like this. And yet, he wavered, watching transfixed as it crossed the street, the Vulkod spilling a swath of blood in its wake, and casually opened the wooden double-doors of a small chapel - and then stepped over its threshold. 

_Fuck_. Geoffrey hesitated - _run_ , his instincts and good sense screamed - but he didn't. No leech should be able to enter a holy place, much less drag a Vulkod into it. And - shit, he couldn’t leave a monster like this to its own devices; God only knew what it would do, to the clergy or churchgoers if not the Vulkod. And, besides, he was loath to let an unknown leech escape without getting some way or information to track it down again. If he left now, would the thing that led him back be a trail of murders? So, against his better judgement, Geoffrey picked up his things and followed the two monsters into the church. Thankfully, the hour was late and the chapel was currently abandoned, so only he was present to witness the Ekon haul its prey’s heavy frame up through the nave and onto the altar. “Proficiscere anima christiana de hoc mundo,” it intoned, one hand on the Vulkod’s chest to keep it from escaping, and Geoffrey didn’t know Latin but he’d been raised and surrounded by enough Catholics to recognize a prayer when he heard one, “in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, qui te creavit.” 

_Last rites_ , he realized, watching transfixed as shadows surrounded the leech’s raised hand as it spoke, leaving in its grip an ebon-black stake. Two decades of vampire hunting, and Geoffrey had _never_ seen an Ekon turn shadows into a tangible object. He’d never seen an Ekon enter a church before either, or make a Vulkod levitate.

With the last words of the prayer - _et omnibus Angelis et Sanctis Dei_ \- the leech clutched its stake and plunged it downward. A spray of blood erupted from the Vulkod’s chest, drenching both the priest and altar. The beast gave a wet gasp and spasmed, clumsily swatting at its attacker before the leech-priest braced its weight against the stake and pushed, driving it further into the heart and sending another wave of blood spilling over the edges of the altar. Finally, it fell still.

After a few moments of silence - save the quiet drip-drip-dripping of blood - the leech-priest looked up and caught Geoffrey's gaze. Funny. Its eyes were coffee-brown and gentle, and for just a moment the beast looked as human as any other man. In fact, it didn’t look like a leech _at all,_ and not only for just a moment but even when Geoffrey looked close. He knew how. He knew well how to slip past a leech’s glamour and see it for what it was - see the unnaturally bright irises, too-narrow pupils, reddened sclera, the way its chest remained eerily still - and none of those signs were present here. Just dull, brown eyes peering out from a dark mass of curly hair, a healthy flush to dark olive skin, and a chest that rose and fell rapidly in quiet excitement. 

For a wild moment, he thought he could be mistaken, that the priest really was mortal of some sort - but then it tipped its head slightly to the side, and Geoffrey’s vision went suddenly red and hazy, as if a roll of film had been tied over his face. Spots like bloodsplatter floated through the air, afterimages burnt into his eyes, and there was a disconcerting roaring in his ears. The Vulkod’s blood stopped spilling, as if free of gravity or frozen in time, and instead began pouring _up,_ up off the ground and altar, an entire pool and then some rising from the beast’s massive chest to hang motionlessly in the empty air. The leech-priest grabbed the empty Eucharist cup from the altar and swept it through the blood per way of filling it, and held it out towards Geoffrey as if to toast.

 _That’s excessive_ , Geoffrey thought, and it belatedly occurred to him that, for the first time in years, he was utterly terrified. His heart pounded away in his chest, his legs locked frozen and his hands trembled uselessly, his stake clattering to the floor, and he thought he might suffocate on the noises he couldn’t make. What the fuck was that thing? And what was- this wasn’t- this wasn’t what fear felt like. What it should feel like. He felt as if his heart were about to burst, as if he were out of his mind with panic - 

Realization dawned, late and useless: this unnatural fear was part of the leech’s magic, along with the red haze and the rising blood. Geoffrey was rooted to the spot, his own body well out of his control, and _literally out of his mind with panic_.

Slow and deliberate, the leech raised its hand, palm facing outward and fingers bent in such a way that Geoffrey immediately recognized the gesture as one of benediction. “Be not afraid,” it said, and its voice was so soft and coaxing that it could have seemed sincere if not for how its lips twisted into a wicked smirk. This beast was clearly well aware of the mockery it was making of both the divine and of Geoffrey. "For I bring you good news."

Geoffrey shuddered, the fear cold and jittery under his skin. His lips moved entirely without his consent, but his tongue remained silent, and he distantly wondered what the hell he was trying to say anyway. 

"You'll call me Nicolao Acerbi, your patron saint of sorts," the beast announced, and Geoffrey was suddenly grateful that his fit of muteness prevented him from doing as asked. "And I'll call you my champion."

So it _had_ sought him out. But what- what did it want? Did it mean to Turn him?

 _Escape_. Something in Geoffrey’s head must have clicked, must have broken the vampire’s spell - or perhaps it was because he physically couldn’t be any more frightened than he already was - and before the thought really fully formed, Geoffrey pulled a grenade from his belt, pulled his arm up and back, and lobbed the damn thing as hard as he possibly could. The grenade sailed through the air, and with impressive speed and precision, struck the leech directly above the eye.

And then bounced to the floor, where it did absolutely nothing.

The leech raised a brow, completely unbothered by an impact that would have given any mortal a concussion. “Did you remove the pin?” 

_Fuck_ , Geoffrey thought, his first and only coherent thought before the leech stepped onto the altar and flung itself into a burst of shadows and straight at him.

The first thing he felt wasn’t the leech tackling him, strangely enough, but the back of his head knocking against the stone floor. His head hit, then his back, and if his ribs were cracked before they were surely broken now - the pain seared all at once, and God, he was on fire again and at the same time drowning and being ripped into two - his awareness went black as he passed out for a moment, then came to, and threatened to pass out again.

“ _E dai, basta,_ ” the leech chided, its quiet Italian barely audible over Geoffrey’s wheeze of pain. God, his head, his entire abdomen - the hurt itself was bad enough, and he felt so rattled and jarred about that he may as well have been hit by a goddamn _train_. Straddling his waist, the leech dug its knee into his legs, pinning him to the ground, and even with his hands free Geoffrey knew he was trapped; he wasn’t going to win a wrestling match with any leech, and especially not this monster, and especially not this injured.

_Please, God, kill me quickly._

Once he was able, Geoffrey looked up at his assailant, his vision still clearing and his entire body bruised and shaking. The leech didn’t appear particularly angry, or amused, or anything else really. It studied him almost impassively, its necklace - a fucking _crucifix_ \- dangling centimeters above his nose. Disoriented and hysterical, Geoffrey sputtered out an approximation of a giggle. Of course. Of fucking course. Christ’s mournful face peered down at him pityingly. _Please_.

“I won’t hurt you any more than I have to,” the leech claimed, which was hilarious enough in and of itself. Another mocking joke, or was it trying to actually convince him? Not that it mattered. “You need to be alive - and _mortal_ \- for this task. And you are the most intrepid and intensely alive creature I have observed in a long time.”

Geoffrey didn’t know what to say to that, which was fine, as the only sound that came from his throat was a cracking moan. His head pounded like thunder, and he thought he may faint again. The beast huffed and shook its head, evidently dissatisfied, and ducked down to press its mouth to Geoffrey’s shoulder. He struggled, of course he did, but the bite still hurt like hell when it came, although - it wasn’t - wasn’t drinking, wasn’t draining him - instead, something cold and liquid seeped from its fangs and into his body - 

The beast lifted its head up again, pulling bits of Geoffrey’s shirt and coat from its teeth. What the fuck? What had it done? A bite without thirst, not meant to drink or harm, but- no, it had _injected_ something. Venom. Or… anesthetic or sedative, probably, given the sudden heavy numbness emanating from the wound. At the very least, the pain somewhat subsided, and with it the threat of passing out, so that being conscious was at least tolerable. 

“Hunter,” the beast rumbled, its voice both resonating and muffled as if underwater. “Listen to me, for I have a particular quarry for you. There is an Ekon by name of Jacob Blackwood whose sins are countless and reprehensible. He gorges himself on blood with no sense of restraint and he tortures and mutilates the most defenseless victims he can find. And you, on my behalf, are going to make him pay penance for it.”

Unable to _quite_ understand what he was hearing, Geoffrey tried to shake his head - terrible idea, it was so _heavy_ and the room spun in a blur - as if maybe that would clear it. The grunt he gave resembled nothing like speech, but the beast took it as an acknowledgement anyway.

“You are going to kill him,” it continued, authoritative and matter-of-fact, “and no matter if you burn or stake him, he will reform the subsequent night. So you will kill him again, and again, and again, until he feels at least a fraction of the humiliation and agony he’s caused. Once that’s done, we’ll be able to end this…” it hesitated, briefly staring up as if trying to remember the word, before settling on, “this bullshit.”

It waited patiently for Geoffrey to respond, until he’d found his tongue and focused his mind. "Kill him yourself," he growled through gritted teeth. "If you can."

The beast only sighed regretfully. "Unfortunately, that's the root of the dilemma. I'm more than capable of killing some filthy Ekon - which is why I want _you_ to do it. Blackwood needs to be humbled to learn any shame, and that would best come from the kind of creature he thinks is most below him."

 _Filthy Ekon_. Even though he’d been assuming it, the verbal confirmation made Geoffrey realize that yes, he _could_ be even more frightened, even through the haze of the numbing venom. 

"What are you?" he whispered, though he knew he'd prefer not knowing.

The beast knew it, too, by the low draw of its brows and the resigned smile on its lips. It sat up and fiddled with the crucifix around its neck, tracing the outline with its fingertips. "Damned."

The leech - the demon, whatever the fuck it was - flicked a wrist, and a thick, six inch nail slid out of its sleeve. "Twelve dreams for the Red Queen under crown of stone," it said, suddenly solemn, with the intonation of a chant long practiced. Geoffrey had no desire to find out what it meant, but he recognized the change as dangerous and summoned all of his strength to break through the haze of the anesthetic enough to grope for his stake.

The beast looked almost gently on him, not even bothering to stop him. "Eight voracious beasts born from eight restless nights." Geoffrey’s fingertips touched wood, and he pulled it into his grip and swung the stake into the leech's abdomen - it hardly reacted aside from a slight intake of breath. He frantically hit a fist against the flat end, trying to drive it further in, trying and failing to somehow stop whatever was about to happen to him -

The demon flicked its wrist again and this time three more nails appeared; it held them between slender fingers, regarding them almost reverently. "Four nails piercing the flesh of the sinner."

Not even the anesthetic could dull the feeling of metal impaling through his palms, and Geoffrey screamed his lungs out, the sound of his terror and pain ricocheting off the chapel's stone walls. The numbness and heaviness vanished as he thrashed and kicked wildly, his long years of training and experience useless to him. He screamed and struggled and cried and, God, he wailed like a fucking child, completely undone, a mess of tears and snot. The last time he’d felt so helpless, it had been his Dad looming over him with fangs gleaming.

"Stop! No-please, please - God, please stop!"

The demon spared him a short, pitying glance but it _did not stop_. It leaned backwards and twisted at the waist so that it could drive the other two nails through his boots and through his feet. 

"One prayer for the summoned called by this song... I _am_ sorry. I truly don't enjoy hurting you. I hope you can believe that," it murmured, magnanimously ignoring how Geoffrey’s screams twisted into hysterical curses and insults. It took some time, but eventually he began to tire himself out, his lungs and throat burning and his sobs dwindling into moans and whimpers. 

"The stigmata is a blessing, but a painful one," it added, once Geoffrey was quiet enough, and brushed sweat-soaked hair away from his face with a tender expression. "It's meant to keep you honest, and will fade away when you finish your work. Lead Jacob Blackwood to reconciliation, hunter.“

Geoffrey trembled and panted, exhausted and certain his voice would break if he attempted to speak. The demon seemed to accept this and pulled itself to its feet, careful not to step on him. “Kyrie eleison,” it said, and the crimson red haze faded to black.


	2. Advent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta readers, we die like men.

30th November, 1919

Midnight

Over a year had passed since the end of the vampire plague and the resolution of the Great War, though peace had yet to come to London in full. Britain's soldiers - the ones that survived, at any rate - all returned home, and the battered kingdom and capital began to gradually pick itself up piece by piece, brick by brick and household by household, and mend itself back together. 

The healing process was painful and slow, of course. The Spanish Influenza stubbornly persisted in the hospitals and poorer neighborhoods, its influence beaten but not quite broken despite the nation’s health officially declaring it dead. At night, the city’s moonlit streets and alleyways still played host to the covert war between mankind’s supernatural predators and the small bands of armed men sworn to hunt them, though the violent spectacles and skirmishes were, over time, growing more and more infrequent. With the war and the Great Hunt officially over, the foreign Ekon that had flocked to London found it a little less to their liking. The city teetered at the edge of convalescence, some days better, some days worse, but ultimately far more stable than what made for truly great hunting and entertainment. Jacob Blackwood in particular thought modern London terribly boring, especially when there were so many other interesting places that were hosting far more chaos and bloodshed. With the Russian Civil War in the far East, its descendent communist revolutions blooming and bleeding across Europe, the wholesale slaughters in the East by the Ottomans… There were other places Jacob would like to be.

But more than anything, the place where he really wanted to be was anywhere besides six feet under, metaphorically speaking.

Jacob crept along the Thames and through the back alleys, lying to himself that he could actually enjoy the nighttime air and ignore how the river and its surroundings constantly smelled like smoke and shit, and that he wasn’t in the most pressing danger he’d ever been in for all his centuries. Unfortunately, he suspected Redgrave would not play along with him.

For all that the rest of London was dreary and disappointing, the front facade of the Ascalon Club was at least a welcome sight. This time with a bit of a bounce in his step, Jacob swept over to its grand door and gave a few brief, polite knocks. There was a moment of nothing - hardly even a moment, perhaps half a second, but in his current state every second felt like days - before the door’s sliding slat was whipped open, and Arthur Pembleton’s pale features peaked out. Upon seeing him, the Ascalon’s doorman raised a brow, but moved to let him in anyway. Everyone here knew Jacob’s face.

“We didn’t expect to see you again for quite a white longer, Mr. Blackwood,” Arthur noted, graciously holding the door open. “Lord Redgrave will surely be pleased to welcome you back.”

 _I doubt it_ , he thought, but said nothing of the sort. Redgrave may be pleased… for a few minutes, until Jacob had to explain the reasons for his presence.

Despite the late hour, the Ascalon Club was unusually quiet. Maybe it was something in the air, maybe it was the paranoia from being hunted, but Jacob couldn’t fight off a shiver of unease as he slipped through the foyer. Using his Ekon senses, Jacob could see Redgrave in his office - and Redgrave seemed to sense him, too - and Arthur Pembleton was at the door, of course, but otherwise the club was empty. Where were the others? Where were Lords Finney and Sheffield? Where was the human rat, Dawson? And why was the scent of blood that constantly permeated the halls now so… stale? Jacob had been aware that most of the foreign Ekon that had come to London had already returned to the continent, but what about the natives? Did they go off in search of bloodier pastures, as Jacob so wanted to do, or had they been all killed off? Surely, it couldn’t be the latter. The human savages that made up Priwen could have never accomplished such a thing.

Lord Redgrave did not leave Jacob the courtesy of knocking before he opened the great oak door himself. “Good evening, Mr. Blackwood,” the old vampire all but purred, “I wasn’t aware you had returned to London. Welcome home. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“I thought it best to keep my arrival… discreet,” Jacob confessed, watching Redgrave’s brows furl together. “I need to speak with you about an urgent matter. Very urgent.”

Redgrave hesitated, his pink-red eyes taking in Jacob’s appearance from his mud-crusted shoes to his hat. He stood aside, holding the door open, and gestured for Jacob to step inside. “Very well. You may speak, but I cannot promise anything.”

This time, Jacob raised a brow as Redgrave led him across the threshold and over to where two armchairs faced each other across a low coffee table. Fog condensed on the glass, but thank God, Redgrave pulled the curtains over the windows anyway. Not that it would help much against any snooping Immortal, but it was the gesture that counted.

“I noticed the Club is much quieter than it was last time I was here,” Jacob observed, as if that fact didn’t bother him greatly. “Did something happen?”

Redgrave lowered himself into his chair, serenely watching Jacob do the same. “You could say that. Unfortunately, Mr. Blackwood, we are in the midst of a crisis; last year’s ‘Great Hunt’ left us with fewer members than we’ve had in centuries.” 

More flippantly, as if admission weren’t nearly as shocking or grave as it were, he added, “We will recover and rebuild, of course. Ascalon has long stood through the worst of trials and risen again, but it may take some years to do so. In the meantime, I warn you that whatever business you’re on, I'm afraid Ascalon will not be able to help you as much as we have in the past.”

 _Shit. Of fucking course._ “I see,” Jacob responded smoothly, no doubt doing a poor job of hiding his anxious heartbeat. “That is deeply unfortunate indeed. Those Priwen savages must have caught you unawares.”

The deep lines of Redgrave’s face briefly twisted in disgust. “Priwen... and their new pet Ekon.”

This time, Jacob did not bother hiding behind a pretense of composure, and instead let the shock and outrage take over his features. A massacre of the mighty Ascalon Club was difficult enough to accept, considering the strength of many of its individual members, but the idea of an Ekon turned traitor was unfathomable. “ _What?_ Who? What happened?”

Redgrave picked an invisible bit of dust off his suit’s lapel. “Last year, in November, we welcomed a promising newborn by the name of Dr. Jonathan Emmet Reid into our ranks. He was conducting an investigation of the epidemic and its source, and his lineage soon proved to be immensely powerful in its own right. He was exactly what we needed to keep the West End stable. I was perhaps overeager in extending trust to him, and I overlooked his… sentimental nature. I tasked him with Turning Aloysius Dawson, and, well, I suspect you heard how _that_ turned out.”

Jacob had. Though of course the newspapers hardly contained the entire story, all of Western Europe had taken note of Dawson’s natural death, and his uncharacteristically charitable last will and testament. “I see. I was _wondering_ at the club’s reasoning for allowing him to pass on.”

Disgust and regret again flickered on the old Ekon’s face. “I immediately expelled Reid from our ranks, and the ungrateful fool went and gave his assistance to those Priwen fanatics in their crusade to hunt us down. I’m sure you cannot imagine my disbelief.”

Jacob swallowed dryly and fought off the urge to bury his face in his hands. Not even yet begun and already this entire operation was going poorly. “Surely, the savages turned on him next?”

The grim, stiff line of Redgrave’s pale lips was answer enough. 

_Good Lord._ This time, Jacob _did_ put his face in his hands. “So not even the heart of London is safe anymore?”

“It’s presently much improved over how it was,” Redgrave answered with false ease, and Jacob swore he could feel the humiliation burning in the old wretch’s chest. “The barbarians’ crusade is over and their numbers have dwindled, but not before curbing much of ours, and the traitor Ekon still resides in the city.”

And not because Redgrave allowed him to, no doubt; Ascalon did not tolerate or forgive traitors. This Ekon would have to be powerful indeed to kill Fergal and the others… Perhaps _he_ could fend off Jacob’s pursuer? Redgrave wouldn’t like it, of course, but what could he do about it?

No doubt due to centuries of experience surviving vampire intrigue, Redgrave seemed to sense his traitorous thoughts. “And what matter of extra trouble do you bring to Ascalon’s door, Mr. Blackwood?”

Jacob hesitated for just a moment too long. “Sanctuary,” he finally said. “I’m only in search of a sanctuary. Nothing more.”

“And what - or whom - does such an Ekon of such remarkable lineage like yourself need sanctuary from?”

He was trapped now. Not by savage human hunters, not by rival Ekons, not by otherworldly pursuers, but by the naked truth. Jacob closed his eyes and breathed in air that would never quite reach his lungs. _Be sober, be vigilant,_ he reminded himself. “Il Diavolo.”

Lord Redgrave all but threw him out onto the street. Of course he did; the vampire lord was having enough trouble with mortal brutes and two-faced newborns, there was no way he was going to cross the goddamn Demon of Italy. Jacob supposed he should just be thankful Redgrave didn’t hand him over to the beast.

Jacob strode through Ascalon’s gates - for what he suspected could very well be the last time - with a swagger and confidence totally at odds with the fact that he’d just been ejected from the establishment. Ekons were masters of deception, after all, and his breeding was far too noble for him to leave tail tucked between his legs. Not that any of the few people still on the street were paying attention to him anyway, all too focused on their own business; at most, a tall, well-dressed gentleman with a dark beard and sunken eyes briefly glanced his way before passing on by. _See, Jacob?_ his good sense scolded. _No one is paying attention to you. No one is watching or hunting you._

It was a damn lie, of course. Just because he couldn’t see the beast didn’t mean it wasn’t out there, and it certainly didn’t mean that it had ceased hunting him.

Jacob shoved his hands into his coat pockets, pretending to be cold as any vermin human would be in this weather, and took off toward the northern West End. So Redgrave wouldn’t help him, and none of his Ekon friends - such as they were - would hesitate to follow their lord’s lead. Aloysius Dawson was dead, so offering him immortality in exchange for safety was a moot point. Sweet Elisabeth seemed to have vanished from London completely, and even her mortal associates that he knew of had disappeared. It didn’t help that he’d killed some of them himself during his last visit to London… He was regretting that now, but how could he have known then? When was the last time a human had had any use to him besides as a source of blood or entertainment? And for all of Jacob’s flaws and misdeeds, he’d never violated his Maker’s wishes that he not try to contact her ever again. 

Well. He’d behaved at the point of sword and threats, but the fact that he declined to fight - and he could! - her over it counted enough. He respected her wishes, once she’d made them sufficiently clear. He could be reasonable, reasoned with - unlike the beast chasing him.

Would it follow him here? Jacob wondered, as he traversed the West End’s shopping district. His shoes clicked distinctly on the tile floor. He could be quieter. He _should_ be quieter. But his pride railed at the idea; for God’s sake, he was an Immortal, and of some of the best blood in Europe! What did he have to hide from? It would be far, far below his dignity to cower and skulk around.

Nevertheless. The shadows whispered and Jacob walked a little faster than he really needed to.

The sight of the West End’s great St. Paul’s Cathedral brought Jacob far less comfort than it likely did most mortals. He knew from experience the pain that awaited him if he tried to force his way over the threshold and into the house of God. Thankfully, he had no intention of going inside it, but instead _under_ it, where London’s greatest charlatan greeted him with a too-wide grin.

“Mister Jacob Blackwood,” Usher Talltree said, far too pleased with himself than was proper for any mortal to be in the presence of a vampire. “The cards said I might have an unusual visitor tonight. I do so love when they’re right. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jacob scowled. Did he say that to everyone who came to see him? “What else did they tell you?” he asked instead.

Talltree’s eyes glittered in the candlelight, contrasting with the dark shadows cast on his face and making him look like some manic prophet. “I’m not quite sure yet. Perhaps you could shed some light on that for me.”

“I’m not here to help you with your stupid card game,” Jacob retorted, sticking his nose in the air so he could better look down on the Brotherhood’s Primate.

Talltree held his gaze with an unnerving confidence and an irritating smile. “ _You_ were the one who asked, Mr. Blackwood.”

Hm. He had a point. Rather than admit it, Jacob glowered and bared his fangs. “Enough of this. Your useless Brotherhood hoards troves of knowledge, and I need some of it. I'm looking for information on a rare breed of Immortal.”

It was somewhat gratifying to watch Talltree’s smugness slip slowly into wariness - a slight improvement and far more appropriate expression, as far as Jacob was concerned. “There are many kinds of Immortals,” Talltree stalled. “What are you looking for?”

“We don’t have a name for these monsters like we do Skal or Ekon,” Jacob confessed, after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s... we don't speak of them or name them. But you already know, don’t you?”

Of course he did. Talltree’s desk was littered with tarot cards. Most of them were face-down, save for two, pinned under Talltree’s index finger: the Devil and the Fool. Jacob grimaced. For all Talltree’s love for being needlessly cryptic, this was _remarkably_ unsubtle. 

Talltree’s eyes followed his gaze to the cards. “I suppose I do. It’s a rare occurrence that the Brotherhood and Immortal community are in agreement, but unfortunately, this is one such case. The knowledge you’re looking for is considered taboo by the Brotherhood and has been for centuries. Nothing of the topic survives in our archives.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Jacob snarled, leaning in close. The candle flame waved warningly beneath his lapels, threatening to set fire to his coat should he be too careless. Jacob paid it no mind. “You think you can lie to my face? Even if your heart weren’t pounding like a liar’s, do you think I don’t know of your little ‘Ban of the Dragon’ ritual? Any time you want to put down an Immortal, you summon one of these monsters and set them loose. Do you think I don’t know -“

The realization - and the horror it brought - dawned on Jacob with every word that left his lips. “ _You_ did this to me. _You led him to me._ ”

For the first time, genuine fear and panic blossomed on the mortal’s lined face. “I didn’t,” he whispered, but surely he knew. He knew.

Faster than mortal eyes could see, Jacob snatched Talltree by the collar and hauled his body over the desk, sending papers and cards flying. The human fought back, of course, but the impact of his fists were such trifles.

“You think you can play me for a fool,” Jacob growled, pinning the scholar’s flailing arms tight against his body. “But you can’t. You won’t. You’ve brought this monster to London, but now, you’re going to help me get rid of him.”

With that, Jacob dragged the scholar from his hidey-hole beneath the house of God, and carried him down into the depths of the sewers where no sane mortal went.

* * *

_Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour._ \- 1 Peter 5:8 (KJV)


End file.
